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Pete Seeger has died, rest in peace, great man.
on the Hudson River sloop, Clearwater
Pete Seeger sent me a postcard to congratulate me on the Free Learning Exchange: in 1971, possibly ’72. He was busy cleaning up the Hudson River at the time, lived on his sloop on the Hudson, a legend, living before our eyes, showing us what to do and what to be better than Paul Bunyan or Johnny Appleseed ever did. Pete was singing in a theater on Broadway and 108th or so. I had my FLEX promotion table set up on the sidewalk, as I regularly did, in front of the Met, or a library, a theater: passed out literature inviting people to register their teaching talents at FLEX, to support FLEX, to contribute the money and other resources, especially informational resources, we needed to establish an alternate informational infrastructure: a universal-however-local learning network, a cybernetic data base for all activities; but free: that is, voluntary, convivial, not coerced: not licensed, not licensing, not managed: open information, no gatekeeper: the prototype for an anarchist internet.
Pete came over, said Hi when I waved, took some lit. I few days later I got his postcard. I still have it, will scan it.
Mutual Legend Recognition
Of course I too am an American legend, but with a difference: my legend isn’t known, not out loud, in this kleptocracy.
I’ve been harping that and related points for forty-plus years: that’s the principal thing that Knatz.com was and is. I’ll develop it along another thread in an offspring post, Non-Flammable Information.
Disconnect your mind from the above, which is important, vital, before proceeding to this trivial, irrelevant memory: concerning social irony, violations of taboos, more´s …
Pete was singing at the theater, some black guy, well-known at the time was speaking. The black guy had an entourage, including a gaggle of little white chickies. (Pete glided solo.) I set up outside: eventually a couple of Rasta dudes set up a wares table next to me: selling little Rasta stuff. At an intermission one of the white chicks came out for a cigarette, bent over to inspect something on the sidewalk. I heard one of the Rasta guys e-nnounce, “That is a shame!” I looked up.
The girl had no underpants on. Squished under her bottom, clear as can be, was her hairy nether-purse. (The girl under the umbrella here does have panties on.) The guys and I shook our heads and clucked at each other: me smiling, them indignant.
Business was poor, they left early. I’m so glad I hung around to cross paths with Pete.
Also see Tsena Hora.